From Golmud to Yu Shu (October 2007)
“On the menu there are two dishes: one kilo of beef and two kilos of beef”

Golmud, a modern suburbia with a hollow soul, is the end of the road for now. Tibet is closed and the first chance to apply for a travel permit is in two weeks. After a day and a half of writing travel stories and emails in the internet cafés of Golmud it is time to move on. Time for a plan. Yu Shu seems like an interesting goal. When we ask around people tell us that we can only go to Yu Shu via Xining and for that we have to travel 850 km northwest over the same roads we just came from and then travel 900 km south along a different route. But as the crow flies Yu Shu is only 400 km southwest of Golmud. So the Xining option just isn’t good enough. There must be a better way. After buying a detailed map it seems initially that everybody is right. But after a second look we discover a faint dotted line. It starts 180 km south of Golmud on the left of the Lhasa highway. Maybe a sand road or a road under construction. Anyway: there is hope.

Goatskin, yak steak, mud roads, drafty hotel rooms and an occasional dog fight, here we come.

The next day after an early breakfast and a good swim in the spotless Golmud swimming pool, our tireless work to arrange transportation commences. We talk to eight different taxi drivers, four land rover owners and two travel agencies, but can’t find what we’re looking for. The agencies ask for four times our budget (2000 yuan). Each of the taxi drivers tells us that the road is too rough for their city sedans. The only one we find who is able to borrow a land rover would force us to dig almost equally deep in our pockets. Li figures that we might be lucky in the mountaineers shop she discovered in the center of town. So we are heading for this store and after arrival things don’t look bad. Some wheeling and dealing starts and suddenly our trip seems just a phone call away. But when the driver arrives we discover that he is not as cheap as we were told. We tell him no. A little disappointed, we continue our quest in a new direction, then within a minute the driver runs into us again: here, just out of sight of the shop, he drops the price 700 yuan. But we must be willing to cut out the middleman. For a moment we are hostage to indecisiveness, then we decide that the price is still too high. We decline the offer.

Spurred by our empty bellies our nostrils lead us into a not-so-clean-looking but fine-smelling fish restaurant. The crowded restaurant is on the second floor with a view on a big square. In the middle of the square Chinese people from all over are entangled in a folk dance. We have seen this in many new villages before. Newcomers celebrating their common ground? Maybe. We watch. We eat. Night is falling. After dinner, with the sun gone, it is dark and cold. The fresh wind blows away our disappointment and encourages us to continue our search. As we are walking a young taxi driver arrives. This guy is not cursed with the phlegmatic remains of the long-gone communist system. He is open to negotiation. We agree on a price and he leaves us to get approval for borrowing a friend’s car. After an hour he returns. He has swapped his typical city taxi for a brand new red Japanese pickup. It seems a little fragile but we are not choosy. The next morning at seven we will meet him in front of our hotel. It is supposed to be a ten-hour trip. We have settled on 1250 yuan, fuel, food and the price of a bed. Altogether it keeps us way under budget.

The next morning is a typical Qinghai winter day: clear blue sky, freezing. After two hours driving we take a left off of the highway. In the middle of the first snow we have our breakfast: noodles and some vegetable-stuffed steamed bread (miantiao and shucai baozi). Large dogs are playing in the snow. We take off from the restaurant: the dotted line beneath our wheels. The frozen road of black mud is partly covered with snow. It seems to be endlessly snaking its way through a plain, sometimes slightly sloping white landscape. Every forty kilometers or so we pass a camp with some trucks: road workers undotting the line. Here, in this wintery world, they sleep in their unheated tents between their hills of asphalt and close to their machines.

As we go along we are overwhelmed by the fauna. Snow owls. Hundreds of white-bellied eagles. Lots of herds of different kinds of antelope. Later on, using the internet, we can identify several as the funny white- and sturdy-assed Tibetan gazelle. Then there are yak, sheep and goats pawing through the shallow snow on the same plains where in summer they must be feasting on tasty grass. Also there are foxes and hundreds of small guinea pigs nervously scouting the skies. Because of their size and white camouflaging fur it takes a while before we spot them. After our eyes distinguish them from their background they seem to appear everywhere. Their quick runs never cover more then eight meters. Then they stand on their hind feet briefly before disappearing back into the ground, out of reach of the sharp beaks circling high above them.

After some hours the driver offers to let me take over the wheel. It is already afternoon, the sky has been blue all day and the big lazy sun has turned the frozen road into thick mud. At 30 kilometers an hour I’m avoiding pools of mud and pits and plowing my way over the stubborn road. Now and then we pass a shallow stream. The riverbeds are stony and therefore the water in the rivers is sparkling clear. When we finally stop for lunch, at the second village we encounter, it’s 3:30pm. We are just halfway up the undotted line.

The village consists of several piled stoned houses with thick leather curtains for doors and motorbikes parked in front. Further back from the road prayer flags are nervously flapping in the wind. Tibet is still over 600 kilometers away, but in-between there is nothing but these white plains and rocky mountains.

The hamlet has a one floor building in which old comfy chairs are planted around a wooden table. The tabletop is slightly lower than a normal dinner table to avoid feeling like a midget when sitting in one of the lazy chairs. The setting is easily associated with a town council but the room is (also?) used as a restaurant. The menu lists but two dishes: dish one - one kilogram of beef, dish two - two kilograms of beef. Although the menu is bilingual (Tibetan and Mandarin), most of our hosts are not. This impedes communication, but their friendliness, the coal furnace and the soup (comes free of charge) make us feel warm and wanted.

As we leave, our driver asks us whether we have objections to taking on two additional passengers. We don’t, we are glad. This will give him the opportunity to earn something extra. As we understand by now, the trip is hard work both for driver and car. Tomorrow a long lonely road awaits them.

Two Tibetans, twenty-five sheepskins and two hundred kilograms of grain heavier we continue our trip. The extra weight presses on the back of the feeble Japanese car: the inevitable happens. Slowed down by a flat tire and a fatigued driver we reach our destination at nine o’ clock pm. It’s a small icy cold town counting about 500 souls. The absence of streetlights and the weak light coming from the houses indicates at least a scarce use of electricity (maybe even no electricity other then batteries). This little village is the crossing point: not far from here asphalt roads take over.

Our Tibetan passengers leave us to spend their night with relatives. We also leave the car and ask around for a hostel. The unpaved streets with their frozen mud combined with the lack of sufficient lighting are turning a small walk into an ankle busting experience. The hotel we eventually find is the only one in town. The three of us are given a two bed, unheated room with a drafty door and without running water. There is no toilet. The only way to relieve yourself is to cross the courtyard and then follow the narrow excrement- and piss-steeped alley towards the cesspool. For the first time during our already-long trip through China I am yearning for comfort. My “tough” inner self’s resistance to this mental weakness is undermined by an aching head and a nauseous feeling. In each others’ arms but with our clothes, socks and even coats and caps still on, Li and I wake up early. The aching head and nausea are still there. Although Li is not complaining as much as I am, she has also felt better. Is the beef to blame? The answer will follow soon.

Li and I go looking for a new ride. Soon a big mellow Tibetan takes us into his family. We are huddled together on the back bench of a Suzuki-sized mini van. Next to us the driver’s brother, an equally big man, is sitting. On our laps are stacks of sheep skin. On the middle bench: an old man, his wife, their middle-aged son and his kid. They are sitting on a hundred and fifty kilos of dried beef. With the driver and his wife we make a total of eight. The car squeaks as we crawl up the mountain. At the top, the little mystery about our health is unraveled by a sign saying “elevation 4800m”. Yesterday morning we left Goldmud located at 2800m. In the afternoon we are released of the small agonies of the mild form of altitude sickness that had given us discomfort: cured by time and a lot of tea. Soon after, we reach our destination. Yu Shu is a crowded, colorful town. It’s easy to feel at home. There are some Han-Chinese walking around but most of the inhabitants look Tibetan. On the main square just in front of our hotel, there is a statue of a proud Tibetan warrior. From our sixth floor hotel room we have a good view of the surrounding area. My eye falls on a monastery maybe two hundred meters uphill. I have regained my energy, and after two days mostly spent in a car, I can’t wait to go for a long walk. Li prefers to stay in the hotel, so I go alone.

Just outside the city a small town of clay has grown against a hillside. The people are outnumbered by the dogs. Most of them are wagging their tails, in the same friendly way as the monks from the uphill monastery are nodding their heads. But as I gain altitude it seems I am losing sympathy. The monks become less friendly and the dogs begin to growl. I try to keep my head up, refuse to get intimidated and continue my walk towards the summit. When I am almost there, a street dog attacks.
He bites my pants but he doesn’t reach the flesh. After some pulling and some angry shouting, the dog cowardishly takes off. From a window above, some monks are laughing at me.

A friend I met in Xi’an was bitten by a wild dog in Mongolia. Because he could not get a tetanus shot right away, he had to recover for no less then a month in a Beijing hospital. But now I am not concerned with that, it is just the primal fear of white teeth that keeps me sharp. It hasn’t ended yet. Suddenly I am surrounded by six knee-high street dogs, growling and flashing their fangs at me. Below the road against the hillside there is a small house being built. No roof yet, just a platform with some walls, hanging over the steep hill. I step off the road into the house. The walls are giving me coverage so I only have to watch what is in front of me. On the floor there are some loose boards with sharp ends. The dogs are still on the road growling at me from above, allowing me to pick up an sharpened floor piece.

The weapon in my hands makes me feel more comfortable; the dogs lose interest quickly. As I step back up on the road the toughest of the bunch is challenging a young yak. The infant cow already has impressive horns and the dog realizes that the attack was silly. To save the day he switches his attention back to me. Me, still armed with the pointed piece of wood, and him: we dance around for a while. He growls, bites in my direction, growls again, then I thrust the sharp end into his mouth, he squeaks loudly, bites the board, lets go and tries to attack me again. It’s a thrilling game but not really a challenging one. My adversary isn’t more than a knee high carnivore. Our dance is over within a minute. As I leave, I am praying that as I descend I will regain the sympathy of the dogs. At the foot of the hill the dogs are much bigger. But I get what I pray for and descend safely.

The next morning we leave for a small mountain town in the utmost south of Qinghai, called Nancheng.

Kashgar, Xinjian: In the middle of life

“…cars are slowly moving forward in clouds of dust like tired feet stumbling across dry sand; the head of a camel with a disdainful stare and ruminating jaws towers high above the traffic; on the left a motor taxi crackles along the stalls.”

The autonomous province of Xinjiang is a remote region northwest of Tibet. It borders four Stans on the west (Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Pakistan) and Mongolia on the north. The cities in this immense province -China’s largest according to land size- are separated by large deserts from the China of the Han-Chinese. Xinjiang is, like Tibet, incomparably different from anything else in China. This is the land of lost camels, donkeys, horses, goats, sheep, pomegranates, naan-bread, kebab, chickpeas, raisins, dehydrated fruits and men with wild beards and tough faces molded by wind and weather.
As we arrive in the city it is twilight, but after half an hour, by the time we are at the night market it’s already dark. My bladder is calling and my “Ce suo zai nar?” (“Toilet is where?”) is answered with fingers pointing in different directions. It’s urgent and I am glad to see three men standing in front of a wall. But when I approach they suddenly bend over and kneel. What I thought to be a urinal seems to be a prayer wall. Shortly thereafter I finally find relief in a public toilet. In my hurry I almost stumble into the wide open gutter in front of it.
The night market is a small paradise: chunks of fish slide into the frying pan, lamb kebab roasts on fanned charcoal, chickens are turning brown in the restaurant windows, stacks of naan-bread lie around on wooden tables like thick yellow pancakes with burn spots, sugared lumps of hazelnut and sticky bars of sesame are chopped in thick slices. Across a small street in another part of the nocturnal market long carcasses hang on racks behind ingenious street furnaces. The furnaces are connected by aluminum piping forming small, laboratory-looking grilling factories. Back on the main square of the market in the spaces between the stalls, groups of squatting people swallow cooked eggs whole. The egg-eaters leave behind a floor of egg-shell grit. They have come from outside of the city on their periodic shopping quests, enjoying their home-cooked eggs after business is done. Because of their squatting it seems as if they are conspiring. But neither conspiracy nor stinginess are words that apply to them: everybody can eat along, so can I.
Across from the night market is the fifteenth century Id Kah Mosque. The next day, we visit it in the morning. Behind the beautiful brownish yellow façade lies a big garden. But at the end of October it’s bare and dry. At the back of the garden there is an immense prayer space.

Close to our hotel the city has a modern cosmopolitan look. At noon hundreds of elementary school students dressed in blue and white tracksuits are strolling along the sidewalk. On the other side of the broad boulevard Mao is standing 30 meters tall on his base, saluting Kashgar between flapping red flags. A wide square holds hotels, banks and a big department store.

No more than a kilometer from Mao saluting his countrymen, the pace of the city changes drastically. Traffic moves slower, roads are less comfortable and the dryness of the desert has snuck in. The main streets are still wide but what will not happen under the eye of Mao, happens here: an occasional donkey chart blends in at the roundabout between trucks and taxis. Along the streets large hotels and restaurants built by Islamic architectural standards have replaced the modern shops. Although the maintenance is less, the grandeur is not. Between the dusty main streets the old, car- and care-free city is hidden. It’s contagiously vivid. Now and then a woman with a thick dark piece of cloth over her head (not a burqa) is moving among the crowd. However, most women only wear scarves or leave their heads uncovered. The smell of baked bread is coming at us from all directions. Loaves of naan-bread baked in deep stone ovens in front of the houses are lying on tables. Locals flip them over and back to check for burn stains. Behind vegetable carts men are selling their goods. Although the streets are bustling, the atmosphere is relaxed and enjoyable.

This is the world of the Uighers, but their world also comes in many flavors. Besides classy restaurants and hotels built in authentic Islamic manner, night markets, beautiful squares and parks where Uighers play chess to kill time, there are also other less appealing areas. I mean appealing to the eye, because our hungry curious hearts eat it all. The famous Sunday market is located in such an area: a city of stalls built on dusty sand roads. Everything one can think of is for sale here. From shoelaces to living fish, from kebab to color tvs and dvds. But most of all it’s cloth that is sold. In all colors. Of all kinds. In all shapes. Cotton, silk, linen, scarves, burqas, sheets, carpets, tapestries, chadors, etc. etc. In front of the market cars are slowly moving forward in clouds of dust like tired feet stumbling across dry sand; the head of a camel with a disdainful stare and ruminating jaws towers high above the traffic; on the left a motor taxi crackles along the stalls. I am thinking but one thing: let’s get lost in this wilderness of stalls!

Catastrophe & Physical side effects of studying Chinese (February 2008)
“…how strange it is to notice that the circus of torture has shifted to the Eustachian tube…”

"U.S. Embassy burned down! News, News!". When I hear this news I'm in the subway. If my Chinese had been better I would have bought a newspaper, but as it is now I only understand the part "... Meiguo huo” (“America fire. .”.) somehow the connection with ‘something being on fire’ is far away. My girlfriend Li is the one who translates the message for me, but as she does, she adds some Chinese business culture with it. She explains that selling newspapers in China is a dramatic event: regularly the same famous Chinese singer dies, the earth in Japan tears open and almost on a weekly basis the American Embassy lights on fire. As a Hendrix fan it reminds me of the Peter Gunn Theme: “Catastrophe you’ve always been a part of me. I see you in my dreams; I see you when I dream; you are my catastrophe.” But although the trick is new to me, to most of my fellow passengers it’s not. In the compartment we are in, no newspapers are sold and besides mine, no smile is reaped. After our stop we leave the vendor with his catastrophes behind and pick up our bike to continue.

Today at the end of February, spring has suddenly kicked in. When we leave the subway station a milky sun is looking down upon us, pumping up the mercury to 18 degrees. A few days ago, it was still freezing during daytime. In the dry climate of Beijing the sun shines 260 days a year. Unfortunately enough, because of the smog sunny days don’t necessarily go together with clear blue skies. After a ten minute ride my hands smell of exhaust fumes. The streets however are spic-and-span. Every day they are cleaned by an army of Chinese with tricycles, bins, brooms and long tongs to pick up paper. If there were a sieve which you could use to purify the air manually, without a doubt thousands of Chinese would do so daily. Let’s hope nobody invents such a sieve-straw.

I haven’t scheduled in a lot of time to explore the “capital C” cultural things yet, but I love to stroll through the vegetable markets and the big department stores. The stores are called Bai Huo Shang Dian: this means “Hundred Sales Store”. The Hundred Sales Store isn’t really one big store but a collection of many small stalls. They are crammed together in big five floored buildings. Compared to shopping in Europe, which I hate, shopping in these stores is a real event. The way the products are grouped: plastic domestic equipment with plastic domestic equipment, electronics with electronics etc, invites bargaining and bargaining in China is fun. Usually I can gain some respect by playing tough. Then the deal is sealed with a smile and a well intended compliment: “Ni hen lihai!” (you are very shrewd). However the unwritten rules of bargaining aren’t as transparent as one might think. Sometimes I find a raving Chinese in front of me shooting his way-out-of-my-Chinese-vocabulary words at me as if his mouth were a machine-gun. Fortunately these are just rare incidents.

To schedule in some Culture I bought a book about hidden places in Beijing that I want to visit by bike. The book is filled with nice facts like: the Forbidden City has exactly 9999 rooms; the nails on (almost) all doors are nailed in rows of nine; all stairs consist of nine or a multiple of nine steps. The book doesn’t explain why the “nine” is special. Wikepedia is only a little bit more informative and explains that the number nine was historically associated with the Emperor of China, that the Emperor's robes often had nine dragons and that Chinese mythology held that the dragon has nine children. But maybe more important: the number nine (jiu) is pronounced the same way as the word for “long-lasting”.

The book goes on. The biggest stone that is part of the ground structure of the Forbidden City weighs 250,000 kilos and was transported from its original location to the Forbidden City in 28 days. The 20,000 workers assigned this Herculean task waited until winter came to build a fifty kilometer long road of ice. This was hundreds of years ago. But recent history also has some interesting facts to recall. At the end of the book I find some facts about the symbolism that was used in the modification of Tiananmen Square in 1999. Most of the stones used for the pavement are 120mm by 96mm with a thickness of 21mm. Those measurements refer to the size of the Chinese population (1.2 billion), the size of the country (9.6 million square kilometer) and the wish to prosper in the 21st century. Other stones measure 120mm x 96mm with a thickness of 50mm, the latter referring to the age of the People's Republic of China. In other words a book to enjoy!

What else is new. I started studying Chinese on a daily basis with a private tutor a few weeks ago. I find it hard, frequently boring, but I am proud to notice some minor improvements. Finally, after a long struggle, I have stopped being constantly aware of having a tongue and jaws. I have dragged them around for weeks. All the small muscle pains – didn’t know I had so many muscles in that area – are healed. The crazy thing is that these muscle pains came up like flu symptoms, soon after I began intensively practicing the impossible sounds the Chinese language consists of. Now I am concentrating on my hearing and how strange it is to notice that the circus of torture has shifted to the Eustachian tube or whatever the place is called where it hurts. To be honest I find these physical side effects the most interesting part of studying Chinese. The way words are formed in Chinese can be very poetic. But the joy I get from this is small considering the eternally long river of repetitions in which I take my daily bath.

Qinghai III - The Qinghai Highway: Dulan
“Four seasons in an instant and white fangs on a chain”

The next place on our tour is Dulan. With an altitude of 3600 meters it’s the highest point we have been to so far. It’s only been three days since we left Xining at 2200 meters. When we walk the stairs of our hotel, our bodies feel old and unwilling but in our room on the fourth floor, we have a nice view of the small town and the mountain range behind it.

A good book can be medicine against boredom, but we have also learned to appreciate the quietness of the small towns of China. A walk is usually rewarding: peeking into houses with their meager lighting, buying a soda in a little shop, exchanging a smile, having a short conversation. Tonight our curiosity is tamed by the height. After eating some mutton in a Muslim restaurant, we limit ourselves to a short walk and then retire to our hotel room. This time with heating. The shower is shared and located at the end of the long hallway. On my way there, I notice that most of the other rooms are open and inhabited by four or more Chinese. Some of them are playing cards. Others watch television. The way many rooms are decorated gives the impression of long term stays. I have no idea what keeps people here, because Qinghai is a desolate province with hardly any industrialized activities. Dulan is no exception. They might work in the stone factory that we will find the next day (although it looked abandoned).

We sleep early and decide on an early rising. At the time we get up it’s still completely dark outside. Our bus is leaving in the afternoon, so we have planned a long morning stroll through the mountains. A month ago in Szichuan we took several hikes. The highest being the sacred Emei Shan (3.099m). In Europe I have done some hiking in the Alps and the Pyrenees, but hiking in the sacred mountains of China is an incomparable experience. The sacred mountains are lined with monotonous stairs from bottom to top. Because of the enormous amount of mostly Chinese tourists, repairing these stairs is a constant process, and young men are continually running up and down the mountain with big flat stones on their backs. Occasionally a lazy tourist is dragged to the top, sitting in a chair between two poles resting on Chinese shoulders. Remembering these lazy tourists brings to mind a scene from Jon Krakauer’s “Into Thin Air”, a true tale about a tragic adventure on the slopes of Mount Everest in 1996. It features a 30 year old New York fashion queen who, inseparable from her Cappuccino machine, has her beloved apparatus lifted up into the mountain camps until 6000m. Above that the air becomes too thin to hold the choppers that fly up with the machine and the generator to produce the necessary electricity.

However, the mountain area around Dulan is not considered a tourist magnet, nor does it bear any resemblance to the mighty Everest. We are spared the monotonous stairs and the danger. It’s just beauty that awaits us.

We leave the village in a taxi. The road is fine, but not for long. We have just left the town’s boundaries when the quality of the road forces our taxi to stop. The mountains are still more than two kilometers in front of us. Nearby there is a long trench. The trench is at least 10 meters deep, 60 meters wide and two kilometers long. It is an old quarry: every piece of clay that once filled the space where the trench is now, has been turned into brick. A small factory lies at the center of the quarry. We have to cross the factory premises to enter the mountain range. A pole with a board is blocking the entrance. We can go round it but Li tells me that the board advises differently: ”We have a dog. We can not be held accountable for the consequences if you enter the premises”. Logic leads us to our decision (why is a dog guarding a quarry filled with mud?): we ignore the warning. However, the growling that follows soon after can’t be mistaken, and neither can the white fangs snapping in our face. As the sound of metal on metal from the chain stops abruptly a heavy choking sound takes over. The German Shepherd -which is straining against the chain, standing on his hind legs-is now close enough that we can smell its bad breath.

Eventually we find a way around it. The detour takes us through a hilly heath to the mountains. It is a beautiful day. The scene is constructed according to the rules of classical landscape painting. A clear blue sky showcases high black snowed-covered mountains, which sit close behind somewhat smaller brown hills on the horizon. In front, a yellow undulating heath.

After one and a half hours we reach the hills. We decide to climb a smaller one (perhaps 150m in height). The hill is steep, but the soft loam and the pointing rocks enable us to go up. At the top, we notice that the sky isn’t blue anymore. Dark clouds have gathered above us. It isn’t hard to imagine that rain will turn these soft and friendly hills into a perilous slide. We have to return.

Back on the heath we can see that it is snowing above the highest mountains. As we walk, the black mountaintops become increasingly white. To be here at this moment is fabulous. We are standing in a cool autumn sun, surrounded by all seasons. Simultaneously with the snow, showers of rain are hitting the lower loam hills we just left. On our right, the clouds have burst open, allowing the sunbeams to contrast with the dark clouds on the left. Big parts of blue sky have appeared above the sandy yellow in front of the heath. The variation in landscape and weather is overwhelming. By the time we reach Dulan the sky is completely blue again. The bus leaves shortly thereafter.

Qinghai I - Xining (October 2007)
“Watching a documentary on a broken color television”

The origin of the famous yellow river is 1,000 km away; but close to Xining the river is still relatively small. We arrive on a gloomy drizzly afternoon. Without any blue in the sky and with the brown clay landscape wrinkled around black rocks and cut in half by the yellow-brown water, it’s like watching a documentary on a broken color television. Higher up, the water of a small side river is blood red and with the roaring sound of a constant thunder it is squeezed through its savage surroundings. The houses we find on the lower parts, close to the city, are paved with cow dung but the porches are square, typically Chinese. Mostly from red brick. Sometimes shiny white.

Xining is the capital of Qinghai. It’s built on a 2,200 meter high platform and embedded in a ring of 4,500 meter high mountains. The little center, approximately two km from the station, has some skyscrapers and breathes a tidy western atmosphere. But the district that borders the station is completely different. The streets are raw and poor. A piece of paved sidewalk is the exception in a desert of muddy sand with now and then a lost brick. The scenery makes me think of the dentures of old men. Between the ruins and an occasional building the cold October wind howls. Nevertheless this environment is the backdrop to a lively market and some very hospitable restaurants.

For the first time in China I notice the widespread presence of Muslim people. On an earlier occasion I visited the night market in China’s old capital Xi’an: a crowded tourist heaven, with lamb kebab, red paper lanterns and Turkish folklore. Muslims are no exception there either, but outside the night market the Muslim people disappear in a sea of Han-Chinese. Here things are different. Except for the western center, which is claimed by young modern looking Han-Chinese, Muslims dominate the streetscape. Most men are wearing flat white caps, the kind that butchers ought to wear in old movies, only round. Some women wear headscarves. Most restaurants are run by Muslims and don’t serve beer, but their policy towards alcoholic drinks is sympathetic. Bringing your own is no problem and a small Chinese supermarket is never far.

All over China hotpot is considered a popular treat for both tourist and Chinese. The West (Qinghai- and Xinjiang Province) is the cradle of the hotpot. It’s mostly served by Han-Chinese but in Xining it’s served differently from, for example Beijing.

In Beijing there are lots of restaurants from cheap to relatively expensive in which the dish is served. There it’s like fondue. They bring one round pot of broth to your table. A spicy broth is separated by a metal wall from a neutral one. The wall has a soft “s”-form, together with the round outline of the pan it forms the yin and yang sign without its two dots. Dishes of vegetables, mushrooms, wafer-thin beef and mutton and all kinds of tofu are served separately. The customers can cook the vegetables and meat themselves in the preferred broth. Here almost every street has several hotpot restaurants but the cozy inviting atmosphere of the Beijing restaurants is nowhere to be found. In Xining the dish is served as a quick snack. Not a pan per table, but one immense pot of broth boiled on a coal furnace per restaurant. The ingredients are limited to vegetables, mushrooms and tofu. They’re pinned on wooden skewers an neatly shelved, side by side, in a showcase. My favorites are the cauliflower and the oyster mushroom. The vegetables chosen are removed from their skewer and put together in a sieve. The sieve is put in the big hotpot to soak. The broth is (probably) drawn from mutton with seasonings. After boiling, the vegetables can be served with or without noodles and some additional hot sauce. A stomach-filling meal costs 10 yuan . The doors of the eateries are wide open. In one or two months It will be minus twenty celsius. Therefore the present afternoon temperature of around plus ten degrees is considered warm.

The traffic is also different. In spite of the flatness of the cityscape, rickshaws and bikes are no part of it. For transportation you can use the city bus or a cab. More fun are the motorbikes. They’re illegal, but outside the city center they are tolerated. On every corner groups of young men are waiting on their shiny machines. Long thick gloves attached to their steering wheels are hanging to the ground, ready for their arms to be put in whenever the have a ride. It is early in the morning when I ask for one. I am looking for transportation to go to a swimming pool. Most Chinese can’t swim. Moreover, a pool is an expensive thing for most locals. This means that they’re scarce and not well known. The chauffeur can’t help me. I decide on taking a ride anyway, so I pick a place on the map close to the center and ask him to bring me there. From there on I walk.

Eventually I find a pool behind the center. It’s something in between a normal swimming pool and at hot spring. Underwater lamps make the water translucent yellow. A little like the water of the river but much more transparent. It is said that the thirty-degree-celcius water has healing powers but for me it is mainly too hot to swim my laps. I think, maybe this is how the Chinese accidentally invented hotpot: a guy who forgot to take the vegetables out of his pockets while swimming in this hot soup. However, I must say the soaking is a good experience. In the pool I have a nice conversation with an English-speaking Chinese man. He tells me that there are a lot of foreigners in Xining. I am surprised because I haven’t see any so far, but everything is relative: as he continues he talks about 200 foreigners in a population of almost 800,000.

After a few relaxing days Li and I have planned a little trip to a park with a mountain lake approximately 140km from Xining. We hire a taxi. The road meanders its way through the mountains. At some points the mountains are covered with iron netting to prevent boulders from smashing on cars. These precautions are not taken everywhere. As we continue, rocks with a diameter up to three meters are vertically planted on the road. “Fallen yesterday, because of the rain”, the driver responds to our curiosity. The way he is maneuvering around them shows that he is not intimidated at all.

The streetscape of the little village where we spend the night doesn’t score high on the romance meter. The streets are wide but without the allure the words “wide streets” refer to. The big square in the middle isn’t different. The streets, the square and the boring buildings bring to mind a society where aesthetics make way for functionality, forgetting that beauty is a function on its own. The village is surrounded by the same clay mountains that we found outside Xining. Here they are within walking distance and start directly behind our hotel. In spite of the rainy weather we try to climb them. But we don’t get past trying, they are too slippery. Dirty pants and all, we return to our hotel for a hot shower and a clean bed.

The next morning we have no trouble finding a driver to bring us to the mountain lake in the protected resort. When we reach the park entrance we seem to be the only visitors. We continue by foot. As we are walking uphill towards the lake it starts to snow. In an hour we have reached the lake. But we cannot see it. It is covered with a thick layer of fog. However, the woods surrounding the lake are clear and the half foot of snow carpeting, leaves a fairytale impression.

As we return it’s almost five o’clock. It will be dark soon but the driver insists on taking us to a nearby ravine. The sight is promised to be magnificent. We agree but with hindsight we suspect that he had a hidden agenda. The sight is spectacular but at the lookout point there is also a gathering of Chinese workers just back from working in the mountains and waiting for a bus. The driver asks us if we can take two of them. We make room and he makes a little extra money.

When we are almost back we reach a village with all kinds of little vegetable gardens. The village and the gardens are surprisingly well taken care of. On the last corner of the village two women signal the driver to stop. Not far from them there is a large quantity of sacks of red peppers. October is in the middle of the harvest season. With the commuters already out of the car there is space for some new business. For 10 yuan the chauffeur drives up and down a few times. We are compensated for our patience with a bag of peppers. It’s on our lap as we enter Xining after another satisfying day.

Beijing: The Real thing and the Echo-test
“… shout “Hello, Hello”. If you can hear the echo repeating “Ello, Ello”, then there is a big chance that the stuff they are selling is the real thing, for real prices.”
(This story is also published on the IP-dragon site: ipdragon.blogspot.com)

In November 2008 I was visiting Beijing for the third time. The first time was in May 2007. The second time was just before the Olympics in April 2008. Each time I came back to a different city.

In 2007 I stayed in China for three weeks, during which I visited Beijing twice. Once at the beginning of my trip and the other time at the end of my stay. In between I went to Shanghai. My hotel in Beijing was located on the Wafujing Da Jie, the biggest shopping street in the city. When leaving for Shanghai I kept a hotel reservation for after my return. When I came back it was already after midnight when we touched ground. A taxi brought me to my hotel. There I found myself left in a completely unrecognizable cityscape. All over the place construction lights were on and the sidewalks were opened up for hundreds of meters. The pipes around Wafujing Da Jie were being replaced. At the Wafujing Da jie itself, men were kneeling down with hammers and chisels in their hands. The smooth newly laid pavement was hazardous, and to avoid bad press from broken foreign bones the workmen scored the streets by hand, tile by tile, inch by inch. They worked every night until six in the morning. I realized the next morning that this was why I was offered the street-side room so cheaply.

When I returned nearly a year later (in April 2008) Beijing didn’t seem to have changed much. But this was just appearances: four metro lines were almost ready to come out of the oven, all the pavement and pipes of the Wafujing Da Jie area had been renewed, and the new buildings in front of the shopping area only needed some make-up to contribute to Beijing’s modern face.

In November 2008, after the Olympics, all the products of the pre-Olympic efforts to present Beijing to the world as a modern city had already been in use for months. Except for the stadiums, the most impressive development was perhaps the expansion of the subway system. Within a year four new lines had opened with a total length of 85 km.

Lets see if this hands-on mentality is equally applied to the protection of intellectual property rights.

On my first visit to Beijing I was electrified by all the buzzing small-scale businesses, both legal and illegal. An example of the latter were the vendors seated in the big subway stations spreading their DVDs with the newest movies out on blankets. Later on I found out that brand name clothes were sold at big, indoor, seven-story-high clothes markets. An Adidas jacket was sold for one hundred Renminbi (ten euro) but could be bargained down to seventy Renminbi. Dolce & Gabbana boxers were sold for only ten Renminbi.

T-shirts with the Olympic mascots, going for 200rmb in the official shops, were sold on the streets for 10% of their original price. However, in some places you could find sport shops selling brand name clothes for unsuspicious prices. Here is a trick for everybody who hates to buy fake clothes: When in a shop, fold your hands around your mouth to make a megaphone and shout “Hello, Hello”. If you can hear the echo repeating “Ello, Ello”, then there is a big chance that the stuff they are selling is the real thing, for real prices. Another more practical trick is just to look around: the shops that sell the real stuff can be recognized by their lack of customers.

In May 2008 nothing seemed to have changed IP-wise, but after the Olympics it seemed that the IP-system had also profited from China’s efforts to charm the West. Here I must note that the source of this article is just my eyes during short stops in Beijing. So, conclusions are a bit forward and bear not the slightest scientific value whatsoever. That said: the changes looked striking. No more street sales in or around the subway stations. Instead the selling of DVDs seemed to have gone underground. Women on bikes now lured “waiguoren” (foreigners) to come with them to “out of sight” places to buy DVDs. On the other hand, the more formal shops still existed. They sold complete tv-series nicely boxed, but clearly illegal: during the show the viewer is informed about the next program coming up on the evening the episode was originally broadcast.
Most English-language movies are subtitled in Chinese and English and sold with the original audio language. They seemed to have been translated from the audio into Chinese script and then from written Chinese back into the original audio language in two separate processes. The translation to Chinese was usually done skillfully but the English subtitles were often so bad that they were impossible to understand. Some series were adequately subtitled but lacked one or two “difficult” words in a sentence. Often words that don’t come easy to the Chinese ear or words that were spoken softly in the movie. A sentence like: “I am inspired” became: “I am xxxxx”. Even funnier were some of the commentaries on the DVD-boxes. Sometimes these texts, meant to persuade the customer to buy the movie, had the opposite effect. I guess the commentaries were copied from an internet site where opinions about movies are shared. If the Chinese working in the copying industry master the “copy – paste” routine but not the English language then they will not be capable of distinguishing a poorly written opinion from a more structured or appealing one. Or even worse: they cannot indentify the ones that advise others “Not to Watch”. The selection seemed random. For example:

“This is a very good movie. I watched it with my mother. She is almost seventy now but still likes movies a lot..”

Or the opposing opinions. They were rare but sweet:

“This movie is horribly stupid. Watching it is a waste of time. Cage has made much better ones. Don’t make the mistake of being attracted by his name..”

In the clothes department the tags often seemed to have been written by a dyslexic linguist with a blender at home to process the vowels and consonants. On a “Lacoste” shirt I found the following text attached:

SOID EXCIUSIVEIY THROUGH THE LASOCTE SEIECTIVE DISTRIBUTION NETWORK
VENDITA IIMITATA NEI SISTOINA DI DISTRIBUZIONE SELETTIVA LASOCTE
VERLAUT AUSSCHIIESSIICH DURCH DAS NETZ AUSGESUCHTER LASOCTE VERTRAGSHANDIER VENDA EXCIUSIVA POR REDE DE DISTRIBULCAO SELECTIVE LASOCTE

Altogether it seemed that the Chinese authorities hade made some efforts to ban DVD-sales from the streets. However, the more formal-looking shops had been left alone and were still selling clearly non-authorized copies. As far as the clothing business goes: the malls not frequented by foreigners, away from the shopping area of Wafujing Da Jie still offer a great deal of choice of all kinds of brand name clothing for prices that awaken the suspicion of IP-violations. Wafujing Da Jie has upgraded its shops and surroundings. A big mall has opened its doors selling exclusive clothes and perfumes from Western companies like: Chanel, Boss, Gucci and so on. Sport shops have been erected and sell brand name clothes for “Western” prices. They all pass the echo-test.